Sins of the Warrior

by Linda Poitevin

“I agree with the not panicking,” he said at last. “That’s why I think Lang and Boileau are right about not making it public knowledge.”

  “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? There are hundreds of videos posted on the Internet of Seth’s attack here. Half a dozen Archangels were caught in full flight, their wings as clear as day. How do we hide that?”

  “We don’t.” He scrubbed a hand over his hair. “But we don’t have to come straight out and admit we’re up against honest-to-god angels, either. The extremists are already crawling out of the woodwork, Alex. Imagine what will happen if we provide official fuel for their fire.”

  “Are you saying you think Boileau and Lang are right? We should pretend they’re aliens and start a war against them?”

  “Go along with the alien thing, yes. Start another war, no.” Roberts grimaced. “But I don’t think we can prevent it from happening, either. There are too many Langs and Boileaus in the world. You can’t stop them all.”

  A chill slithered down Alex’s spine. War was so much bigger than she wanted to wrap her head around right now. She had enough to deal with. Nina, Jen, Bethiel, Michael, Mittron, Emmanuelle…

  War was also what Lucifer had wanted humanity to do. What he’d predicted it would do. She hunched her shoulders. The sword shifted against her back.

  “Whoever they send in against the Fallen will die, Staff. You know that.”

  A door slammed. A murmur of voices passed by Robert’s office. Quiet fell. Alex’s gaze strayed to the clock on the wall. It was just past eight. Twenty-seven hours since she’d found—and lost—Nina again, and already so much had happened. Changed.

  Irrevocably altered.

  “We can’t save everyone.”

  Her gaze swiveled back to her staff inspector. “What?”

  Bleak brown eyes met hers. “I said, we can’t save everyone. If things are going to get as bad as we think, there will be casualties.”

  I know, she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. She did know. She’d always known. But saying it aloud felt akin to giving up. Admitting defeat. Admitting this was real.

  We can’t save everyone. There will be casualties.

  Alex clamped her hands together in her lap. Roberts was right. People were going to die. A lot of people, and they could do nothing to stop it. She could do nothing to stop it. The world had moved beyond mere conflict into something greater. Darker.

  Armageddon wasn’t just looming anymore. It was here. Now.

  She looked up at her supervisor.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “What we’ve always done,” her staff inspector said. “Solve murders, hold people who break the law accountable for their actions. Peacekeeping isn’t going to start with Lang or Boileau; it’s going to start with us. We’re the front line in this, Alex, and our front line is here, in this city. You, on the other hand, are a whole other issue.”

  Her hand clenched over the papers she held. “I’m not going to Ottawa.”

  “And I won’t tell you to. But Boileau was serious about the twenty-four hours. If you’re still here at this time tomorrow, he’ll have you detained.”

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  Roberts gave an impatient huff. “I’m telling you—for your own good and against every job imperative I have, I might add—to stay away from the office. Go to ground, at least for a few weeks. Boileau’s bound to lose interest sooner or later, especially if they go ahead with whatever they have planned.”

  A few weeks. Did the world have that long?

  “Staff—”

  “Goddamn it, Jarvis, can you just once do what you’re told without arguing? Go home. Bury your sister. Do whatever you have to do for Nina. But stay the hell away from the job.”

  Alex glared at her supervisor. He glared back, lines of worry carved around his eyes. She tried to care that he cared, but after seeing that video, an odd emptiness had formed at her center. A hardness. As if the caring had been drained right out of her. Not where Roberts and her colleagues were concerned—or the rest of the world, for that matter. She still cared a great deal about the survival of humanity. But when it came to herself?

  She paused her thoughts, turned them inward, and took a long, hard look at her reality. Her cold, eternal, no-matter-how-she-looked-at-it-she-was-screwed reality. So what if Boileau caught up to her? Chances were that Michael would just remove her from his custody anyway, because he wanted her to find Emmanuelle.

  Or Bethiel would, because he wanted Mittron.

  Or Seth would, because he wanted her.

  What was the point of caring when her life didn’t even belong to her anymore?

  She stood and slid the papers across the desk toward Roberts. “I need these signed,” she said.

  Roberts studied the international intelligence alerts she would send out to Interpol, one for Mittron, no last name, and one for Emmanuelle, last name Batya. Daughter of God, Michael had said it meant when Alex asked. But she didn’t think Roberts needed to know that.

  Her supervisor took a pen from the cup on his desk and scrawled his signature across the bottom of each form. Then he put his hand over the documents.

  “I’ll enter them into the system myself,” he said. “Go home.”

  Alex reached over and tugged the papers from his hold. She met his gaze calmly. “I will,” she said. “In twenty-four hours.”

  She’d made it as far as opening the door when his voice stopped her, but not with the reprimand for insubordination she expected.

  “Hold on,” he said instead. “What the hell is that under your coat?”

  Shit.

  She looked over her shoulder. Her supervisor had one elbow on the desk, and his fingertips supported his right temple. Curiosity and wariness warred for top billing in his expression. Wariness won when she didn’t reply.

  He motioned for her to close the door again.

  She held up the papers. “I really need to—”

  “Detective Jarvis, do you still work here or not?”

  Alex closed the door. She returned to stand before the desk, feeling remarkably like she’d been called before the principal.

  “Well?”

  She heaved a sigh and braced for the storm.

  “It’s a sword,” she said.

  “It’s a what?”

  Alex flinched from Roberts’s raised voice. Her gaze flicked toward the windows, ensuring the blinds were fully closed. She shrugged out of her coat and turned so Roberts could see the scabbard at her back.

  “A sword,” she repeated. She let Roberts stare at it for a few seconds, then she reached over her shoulder and grasped the hilt. The blade left its hardened leather home with a slow, deadly hiss of sound. She laid it across her supervisor’s desk.

  Roberts’s brown gaze lifted to hers. She watched disbelief struggle with outright shock. She held up a hand to ward off the questions gathering.

  “Seth is coming after me again,” she said.

  More staring. More silence. Then a barely-there mutter. “Christ.”

  Alex slumped into a chair. God, it felt good not to sit up straight.

  “You’re sure?” Roberts asked.

  She nodded, wondering how much she should tell him and how much she should hold back. She decided she didn’t have much more to lose. Leaning forward, she set the papers he’d signed on the desk between them.

  “These are in exchange for me remaining here for the moment. As long as I’m looking for them”—she tapped the papers—”I’ll have protection. This”—she nodded at the sword—”is for backup.”

  “Fuck, Alex…” Her supervisor’s voice trailed off. He looked away. “Fuck,” he said again. “Does nothing in this goddamn world make sense anymore? Every time I think I’m getting my brain wrapped around what’s happening, something else comes up. How the hell are you coping, never mind staying sane?”

  She laughed. There was no amusement behind the sound. “I think the sane thing might
be questionable right now.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ve had weeks more than you to take it all in, Staff. I’ve been living with this since Ara—Jacob Trent came on the scene, remember?”

  Would she ever be able to say Aramael’s name again? Or her sister’s? Eternity was a long time, but would it be long enough to take away the pain?

  Roberts rubbed a hand over his head. Leaning back in his chair, he stared again at the weapon atop his desk.

  “May I?”

  Alex lifted a shoulder, let it drop. Roberts reached for the sword’s hilt but drew back with a yelp when blue light arced between it and his skin. “Jesus! Is it supposed to do that?”

  “I had no idea it did.”

  He grunted, rubbing his hand. “Well, at least there’s no danger of anyone taking it away from you in a fight. But how in hell are you going to defend yourself with it against one of…them? You don’t even know how to use it.”

  “I’ve been offered lessons,” she said.

  “By whoever—whatever—is protecting you?” Roberts paled and swallowed. Hard. “Hell. He’s here, isn’t he? Where?”

  “Out there.” Alex jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the door.

  Roberts stared past her, a thousand other questions jostling behind his expression. He voiced none of them. Just groaned, folded his hands on top of his head, and leaned back in his chair.

  “All right,” he said wearily. “If anyone asks about him, he’s your new partner. Call him whatever you want. And you can carry the sword, but for God’s sake, keep it out of sight.”

  She nodded and stood, then slid the sword back into its scabbard. Aramael’s sword. But she wasn’t thinking about that anymore. Just like she wasn’t thinking about Jen.

  Again she made it to the door. Again his voice stopped her.

  “Jarvis.”

  She looked back.

  “You’re going to ignore the twenty-four hour thing, aren’t you?”

  “Most likely,” she agreed. “But I’ll stay clear of the office so no one here has to do the arresting. We’ll call it a compromise.”

  He sighed. “We’ve been asked to provide backup for a demonstration at Queen’s Park this morning,” he said. “If you’re going to be here anyway, you might as well make yourself useful. Briefing’s at ten.”

  *

  Mika’el caught hold of Alex’s wrist as she walked past him. “Are you done?”

  “Roberts signed the forms. Now I need to have them entered into the system.”

  “Let someone else do that.”

  Alex gazed pointedly at his hand, and he released his grip on her.

  “Fine,” he growled. “But we leave when you’re done.”

  “No, we don’t. I have work to do.” She walked away.

  He stalked after her. “Damn it, Alex—”

  She stopped so suddenly that he almost bowled her over. Each took a single step back from the other. Alex’s mouth formed a tight, stubborn line beneath her nose.

  “Exactly what else would you like me to do, Michael?” she demanded. “I’ve told you I’m not leaving Toronto, and I’m sure as Hell not sitting around my apartment while you brood and God knows who hunts me down. I’m working. You think I’m important enough to warrant protection, fine. Protect me. But you do it here, and you stop whining about it.”

  Anger welled in him, but even as he opened his mouth to remind her to whom she spoke, her blue eyes moved to stare over his shoulder and the corner of her mouth quivered. He hesitated. Cursed his insensitivity. Shook his head.

  “You know, sometimes you do such a good job of pretending you’re okay that even I believe you,” he muttered.

  Her startled gaze flew to his. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He sighed. “Nothing. And yes, I’ll protect you here. For now. But we talk about it later, Alex.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “We talk about it later,” he repeated. And he hoped by then he’d have come up with an argument she’d listen to.

  *

  Hands resting on the table, Samael looked up from the charts spread before him. He raised an eyebrow at the recently liberated Fallen One he’d sent after the Naphil. Bethiel, he remembered.

  “You’re back already?” he asked. “Did you find her?”

  The former Principality crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe of the war room. “Mittron,” he said. “I want him.”

  A stocky former Virtue appeared at Samael’s elbow, holding out a rolled-up paper. Samael took the roll and waved him off. He studied Bethiel, noting the subtle aggression in the other’s posture. The determination underscored by a hint of the madness that haunted all of Limbo’s former occupants.

  “Why?” he asked, when the Virtue had departed again. He didn’t bother denying knowledge of the former Highest. But he did wonder how Bethiel had found out about his connection to Mittron.

  “Because I do.”

  Samael looked back down at the charts. “And why should I give him to you?”

  Bethiel sat on a corner of the table, heedless of the chart he crushed beneath him. “We’ll consider it a trade.”

  “So you did find her.”

  And apparently he and the Naphil had talked. An unsettling thought.

  Bethiel shrugged. Samael returned to pretending he studied the chart before him. He had no compunction about giving up Mittron—he’d do so in a heartbeat at any other time. Just not now. Not until the Nephilim children had grown enough to be unleashed. Heaven’s former executive administrator had more than proved his worth—at least temporarily—when it came to keeping Pripyat organized and defended. Without him in charge there, Samael would have to take over, a task he neither wanted nor had the time for right now. Not when he was already holding Hell itself together in the absence of Seth’s desire to do so.

  He raised his gaze to the Principality again. “We already had an agreement. The woman for evidence of your innocence.”

  “I changed the agreement. I want Mittron.”

  “Fine. He’s yours. But not yet.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Impatience surged. He needed the Naphil to die. Now.

  “Mittron is still useful to me,” he growled. “You can have him when I’m done.”

  “And I have your word on that, have I?” Bethiel snorted. “Forgive my skepticism, but I’m not inclined to put a lot of stock in the promise of a Fallen One, Samael. You’ll have your trade when Mittron becomes available.”

  “Or I can send others after her. If you found her, they can, too.”

  “If you had others to send after her, you’d have already done so. But you don’t, do you? No one you can trust to do what you asked me to do, anyway. It’s far more likely they’d turn the Naphil over to Seth, isn’t it?” Bethiel swung one leg lazily, his arms crossed and expression bland. “Because that’s what Seth wants. Perhaps if I—”

  Samael’s sword halted an inch from the Principality’s throat. Fear pooled in Samael’s belly. Weakness in his knees. If Seth knew—

  “I don’t respond well to threats,” he snarled.

  The Principality didn’t flinch. “And I don’t respond well to lies. You knew Mittron wasn’t in Heaven. You know where he is now. You get the Naphil when I get the Seraph.”

  “Or I take the knowledge from you and then kill you.”

  Bethiel laughed softly, without mirth. “Enter the mind of one who has known Limbo? You don’t have the nerve.”

  The tip of the sword settled against the center of the Principality’s chest. Oh, how Samael would have loved to prove him wrong…but he didn’t dare. Limbo did awful things to an angel’s mind. Unspeakable things. Mittron had warned him to guard against exactly that when he had opened the gates. To open himself now would be just plain foolish.

  Tempting, but foolish.

  Bethiel placed the flat of his hand against the blade and pushed it away. He stood up from the table.

 
; “I’ll leave you to consider my proposition,” he said. “You can let me know when you’re ready to make the trade.”

  He stopped at the door.

  “Oh, and in the unlikely event you do happen to find someone you trust for the job, you might want to warn them that the Naphil is being protected.”

  Samael scowled. “You would fight for her?”

  “I would if I had to, but fortunately for me, Mika’el has volunteered for the task. She’s very popular, this Naphil of yours.”

  “Mika’el! What in bloody Heaven does he need with—” Samael broke off as realization dawned. “Fuck. He’s using her to find Emmanuelle.”

  “And I’m using her to find Mittron.” Bethiel chuckled. “It will be interesting to see which of her uses she fulfills first, don’t you think? Care to reconsider my proposition now?”

  For an instant, Samael wavered. Bethiel was right. Even if he could trust another Fallen to kill the Naphil and not take her to Seth in exchange for favor, it would be useless to send anyone up against Mika’el.

  Almost anyone.

  A chill slithered down his spine. Bloody Heaven, could he risk it? He met Bethiel’s smug gaze.

  How could he not?

  Calmly, coldly, he returned the other’s smile. “I think not,” he said. “But thanks for the offer.”

  Bethiel’s smile faltered. His lips pulled tight.

  “Have it your way, Archangel. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Samael reached for a pen and dipped it into a nearby ink pot. Ignoring Bethiel, he put pen to chart and scratched a note along the edge, a question he needed to ask about troop movement along a less-protected stretch of Heaven’s border.

  The door opened. Closed. Silence fell.

  He laid aside the pen and braced his hands against the table edge. He turned his plan over in his mind. Examined it from every possible angle. Saw its many, many flaws.

  And knew he had no choice.

  He’d just have to be careful.

  Very careful.

  CHAPTER 23

  “You told me you would get her for me,” Seth snarled.

  Keeping one eye on the Appointed’s bunched shoulders and curled fists, Samael retreated to a strategically safer place on the opposite side of the room. He injected a soothing note into his voice. He wanted—no, he needed—Seth to trust him.